Shooting the Messenger

The scene at dinner:

[I am seated with my mother, father, elder brother S, and his partner O. It is a charming, old Italian restaurant with dark red tablecloths and curtains, plus pretty Tiffany-style lamps for each table.]

Mom: I messed up on Facebook. I’m so confused by Messenger.

O: What did you do?

Mom: I don’t know what happened. I was trying to create a group on Facebook, and next thing I know, I’ve sent a bunch of messages to people, and they’re all saying they aren’t interested. So I deleted my page.

S: You were trying to create a group? I am confused. What were you doing?

Me: Were you just trying to make a group list of your contacts, like for privacy permission?

Mom: Yeah.

Me: Ohhh. I bet Messenger sent a bunch of messages to people in your contacts telling them you joined Messager–and Facebook then will try to get them to download the Messenger app if they try to view new messages while on mobile.

Mom: I think that is what happened.

Me [ready to stab a steak knife through the table]: I HATE THAT MESSENGER SHIT.

[The table breaks out into laughter.]

O: So tell us how you really feel.

Njála – part two: An Abogado’s Avocados

When I initially wrote part one of Njála, things were getting quite steamy with Njal.

He did call me that morning, and I was quite touched. I’m a sucker for posh British accents, and he has one. We talked, and things were cleared up. I was very happy he called.

He wrote me soon after our phone call: “Your voice is beautiful, you have a deep, sexy laugh, and I can’t wait to see you.”

I responded, “And your voice is lovely. I am so glad you called, and I am in much brighter spirits now than I was this morning. Thank you. I look forward to seeing you too.”

To which he replied (and again, I felt especially touched):

“F-

You should email or text me whenever you feel down. I’ll call you as soon as I can.

Love, N”
Our correspondence continued while I was on my way to my aunt’s house where they were celebrating her 86th birthday. It got more erotic and steamy with each email. Even while I was trying to mash avocados for the family gathering, we were still furiously emailing and flirting with each other.
F: I think of you as I mash these rock hard avocados. I wish I had yours–I am sure they would be ripe.
N: Full and ripe, especially when I’ve had no release for days.
NWhat would you do with this abogado’s avocados?
That last line made me laugh. It still does.
And so that erotic exchange continued for some intense 24 hours… I’ve never felt such an erotic intensity before. Passion or reckless ardor–I know not what best describes it. It was the stuff that makes people do crazy things–leave spouses and kids, abandon jobs and all responsibilities. It was wild. And frightening. Both of us felt it and talked about feeling it.
But before I could write this second part, that fire had long burned out. The bridge between us wasn’t just set on fire: he soaked it in gasoline, lined it with TNT, and took a flamethrower to it.

Tex-Mex: it’s weird.

Despite my interesting and exciting series of events at Uncle Julio’s, the food, however, was the low point of the experience. In my confusion and panic at what I had just gotten myself into with the free drink I’d been offered, I really just ordered the first thing that came to mind–same with the drink.

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My free margarita, courtesy of the ladies

So I ordered the Carnitas Azteca plate. It came with beans, rice, tortillas, and a side dish of cheese, guacamole, and sour cream. The bartender had also brought me chips and salsa (I miss those SoCal restaurants that do that! Never see it in the Bay Area.)

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